10/30/2026
Today, my mother sent all seven of her children a su***de letter…
Somewhere between the fear of losing her and the relief of finding her alive, I found myself asking a question that nobody wants to ask: At what point does loving someone mean walking away?
My mother is a he**in addict. She’s a convicted felon who has spent years in and out of jail. She’s also the woman who physically abused and neglected me throughout my childhood, until I finally ran away from home at 16 years old. That’s not an easy thing to say publicly, but it’s my reality. It’s part of my story, and I’m no longer interested in pretending those chapters didn’t happen just because they’re uncomfortable for other people to read.
I’ve known my mother was an addict for as long as I can remember. Addiction wasn’t something I learned about in a textbook or through my career. It was something I grew up surrounded by. I experienced the instability, the broken promises, the fear, the neglect, and the consequences of choices I had absolutely no control over. I was a child trying to survive circumstances that adults were supposed to protect me from. At 16 years old, I made the decision to leave because staying was no longer an option I could live with.
Fast forward to today.
My mother sent a goodbye letter to her seven children. She told us she loved us, that she had failed us, and that her death would somehow give us a better life. She turned off her phone and disappeared.
For hours, nobody knew where she was or whether she was alive.
Thankfully, she was eventually found alive and is now at the hospital… but here’s where things become complicated.
I knew my mother was in active addiction. I’ve recognized the patterns for years and given the circumstances surrounding my late grandfather’s inheritance, I have my own suspicions about what may have motivated today’s events. I cannot tell you with certainty what was going through her mind. I cannot tell you what was genuine desperation, what was influenced by addiction, or whether there were other intentions involved.
What I can tell you is that seven children received a letter telling them their mother intended to die and regardless of the circumstances, the emotional consequences of that are real.
I’m not angry.
Maybe that’s surprising to some people, but I’ve spent most of my life understanding that my mother struggles with addiction. I’ve had years to recognize that her choices are not a reflection of my worth.
What I struggle with now isn’t whether I love her… It’s figuring out where my responsibility ends.
I work with people experiencing substance use disorders, mental health crises, housing instability, and circumstances that most people will never fully understand. I believe in recovery. I believe in second chances. I believe people deserve access to treatment, dignity, and compassion, regardless of their criminal history or the mistakes they’ve made.
But there’s something we don’t talk about nearly enough.
Natural supports are human beings, too AND HOW MANY TIMES WILL A CHILD HAVE TO ADMINISTER NARCAN… to their own parent?
We talk about how important family involvement is in recovery. We encourage people to lean on their loved ones. We recognize the value of having someone who will answer the phone, show up during a crisis, and remind a person that they aren’t alone.
What happens when that support person has spent their entire life being hurt by the very person they’re trying to save?
What happens when the child who was abused and neglected grows into the adult who is somehow expected to become the parent’s emotional safety net?
At what point does compassion become self-abandonment?
At what point does supporting someone turn into enabling a cycle that continues to hurt everyone around them?
Why is it that when someone finally establishes boundaries, people are so quick to call it abandonment?
I was 16 years old when I had to choose myself because the adults responsible for me weren’t doing it. Now, years later, I’m finding myself facing a different version of that same decision. Except this time, I’m not a frightened teenager trying to escape an unstable home. I’m an adult who understands addiction, trauma, mental health, and the importance of boundaries. I’m also a mother who knows the unimaginable pain of losing a child.
I’ve experienced enough loss to understand how precious life is. I would never wish death upon my mother. I want her alive. I want her healthy. I want her to recover and build a life that isn’t controlled by addiction… But wanting those things for her doesn’t mean I can make them happen.
I cannot love someone into sobriety. I cannot sacrifice myself into making them healthy. And I cannot spend the rest of my life trying to repair damage I didn’t create.
There is a difference between supporting someone through recovery and allowing their addiction to consume your own life.
There is a difference between forgiveness and reconciliation. There is a difference between having compassion for someone’s suffering and excusing the harm they’ve caused. There is a difference between walking away because you don’t care and stepping away because you have finally accepted that you cannot save someone who must participate in saving themselves.
Today, I’m grateful my mother is alive but I’m also thinking about the seven children who received that letter. About the years of instability that came before today. About the childhood I never got to experience the way a child should and about the reality that loving someone does not erase what they’ve done to you.
So I want to ask a question, especially to those who have loved someone struggling with addiction:
At what point does a natural support have the right to say, “I love you, I want you to get better, but I cannot keep doing this”?
Because maybe the hardest part of loving someone with an addiction isn’t recognizing that they’re sick.
Maybe it’s accepting that you can understand their illness, forgive their past, hope for their future, and still decide that you will no longer allow their choices to destroy your present.
Maybe, just maybe, choosing yourself isn’t abandonment.
Maybe it’s survival.
